Where Dandelions Bloom

by Tara Johnson

  Heaving another wedge of wood into the groaning wagon bed, Cassie gave him a stern look. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

  Jonah shrugged. “I’m only saying what other folks are thinking.”

  “But they have the sense not to gripe out loud where others can hear.”

  Huffing, Jonah kicked a rock at his feet as she bent to retrieve another stout log. “So do you think they’ll let me see him?”

  She chucked the last wedge in the wagon with a hot puff of breath. “I told you I don’t know.”

  “Maybe they’ll let me go if you come with me.”

  Cassie looked away. She wanted to see Gabe more than anything. Wanted to be assured with her own eyes he was well. That he would recover. See his smile and hear his voice again.

  But he had no desire to see her.

  Clearing her throat, she frowned, trying to look gruff. “You won’t be seeing him now when you’ve got a load of wood to deliver across camp. Get going.”

  Jonah swiped at his nose with a grubby hand, muttering under his breath as he scurried up to the driver’s seat and snapped the reins, lurching the sleepy horse into motion.

  Cassie sighed. She wasn’t good company for the little fellow today. She wasn’t even good company for herself. Not until she knew how her friends fared. Briggs was safe, having been told to stay behind, but George, Selby, and Weeks were still missing, along with a handful of others.

  And she missed Gabe terribly.

  A sharp longing bloomed under her ribs as she found herself moving to her tent. She ducked inside, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. Briggs was gone, called away by the captain. George’s bedroll remained painfully empty.

  Her heart pinched as she knelt to run her fingertips over the contraption at her feet. One of the other soldiers had gone back and retrieved Gabe’s camera with its long, cumbersome lens. The tripod and plate box had been destroyed.

  When the soldier had recognized her, he put it in her possession for safekeeping. Gabe would be pleased to have it back.

  Letting her fingers dance over the cool metal edges, she thought back to the wink of sun that had flashed against the end of the exposed lens. Only moments later the Confederate guns had begun blasting. What would Gabe do if he knew his innocent task had caused the skirmish?

  Because surely the brilliant flash had been the alert that snagged the Rebels’ attention. There was no other explanation. From her vantage point, it had resembled the quick flare of sparking gunpowder. The Confederates must have thought the same.

  Gabe would be crushed with guilt. He was a good-hearted man who hated to inflict hurt on anyone. She’d seen that in him quickly enough. He still carried the self-imposed burden of his mother’s decline and death. Would he hold himself responsible for the soldiers’ deaths as well?

  She gingerly lifted the heavy camera and held it to her chest. The delicate instrument in her possession was the closest thing to having Gabe with her. Jonah’s plea to go to the hospital with him tugged at her with both temptation and dread.

  Would Gabe welcome her visit if she carried the hope of his livelihood and future with her?

  She doubted it would matter if she brought him a whole wagon full of photographic paraphernalia. She had broken their friendship with her deception. He might never forgive her.

  And it was no one’s fault but her own.

  Gabe leaned heavily on his crutch and scowled at Martha as she reproved him.

  “Don’t slump, Avery. Take some pride in yourself, for pity’s sake.”

  Huffing a tight breath, he attempted to straighten his back with little success. “This crutch is too short for me.”

  “Good.” She lifted her plump chin. “You’ll heal faster if you learn to do without it.”

  Gabe was sick to death of this blasted hospital. It had been a week since he was brought in, and the room seemed to shrink with every passing day. The moans of men thrashing in misery grew louder. The doctors scurrying to and fro, more frenzied. And his nurse, Martha, only grew more churlish.

  The familiar burn of pain in his leg reminded him more time was needed for a full recovery, but each day he was growing stronger. He let the crutch fall to the floor as he hobbled across the room in an unsteady limp. Searing stabs of pain radiated up his leg, but he would not fall. He would not. Not in front of Martha’s withering glare. He gritted his teeth as sweat beaded on his brow.

  He moved slowly around the crowded hospital room, trying not to breathe through his nose as he encountered the sour odors of illness seeping from dying men, unwashed bodies, full chamber pots, and sweat-soaked linens.

  He rounded the room, pushing back against the pain, and eased down to his cot with a grunt of satisfaction. He’d done it. It was the longest walk yet without his crutch. And the pain that had taken away his breath only a week ago was duller, bearable.

  Martha cackled. “Make a man mad enough and he’ll fight every time. Good work, Avery. You’ll be discharged anytime now. Doc Goodwin believes you’re ready.”

  He could leave. As quickly as the elation washed over him, sharp disappointment knifed through his chest.

  Leave? And do what? His camera, his tripod, his plates and plate box . . . all of them were gone. Likely shattered to pieces by bullets. A sudden empty despondency seeped through him like rainwater dripping into a trough. He’d failed. Failed Jacob. Failed Mathew Brady. Failed himself.

  Martha prattled on with her gravelly voice as he brooded, her words nothing more than a scratchy hum in his ears. He needed to write Brady. Tell him what had happened. As soon as the thought came, he pushed it away. Scribbling it on paper would make it reality, and that was something he didn’t want to embrace. Not yet.

  As his nurse ambled off, intent on scolding another unfortunate patient, he rubbed his aching calf.

  “Boy, am I glad you’re not dead.”

  The high voice snapped his senses alert. Turning to the right, he couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face at the sight of Jonah Phifer—always grubby, always mouthy.

  “Jonah!” He laughed, and the mirth sounded strange. Had it only been a week since the battle? Perhaps, but levity had ceased long before that. He hadn’t laughed much since the day Cassie’s lie had stung him like a whip.

  Gabe shook away the thought and patted the empty space on the cot next to him. “I’m glad I’m not dead too. Come sit a spell and visit with me. I’m anxious to hear about the others.” Was he? He’d had no word. He wasn’t sure what was worse—truth or ignorance.

  Jonah plopped on the cot, making it squeak and shift beneath him. “Camp is dull as crackers since Ball’s Bluff. Ain’t much news to tell.” Swiping under his nose, Jonah sighed, then suddenly brightened. “Well, maybe a little news. General McClellan decided to keep us put for the winter.”

  Gabe groaned. “I was hoping we would get to move on. We’ve been hunkered down since July.”

  Jonah swung his spindly legs as he studied the room of sick men, missing nothing. “It don’t bother me so much. At least putting up winter cabins is giving us something to do. Briggs has been heading up a lot of the building, chopping down trees all day. He says he doesn’t mind the work, though. Keeps his mind busy.”

  “Still, I was hoping for something new to photograph.” Then he remembered all over again. “Not that it matters. My camera and equipment are destroyed.”

  Jonah offered a sly smile. “You sure about that?”

  Gabe blinked, trying to comprehend the odd look on the lad’s face. “I assumed so.”

  With a wide grin, Jonah jumped up. “Stay put. I’ve got something to show you.”

  Before Gabe could reply, he raced through the hospital room, nearly knocking down a nurse carrying a tray of bandages. Land of Goshen . . .

  A moment later, he returned, lugging the most beautiful thing Gabe had ever seen. Unshed tears stung the backs of his eyes.

  Jonah stood before him and offered it with outstretched hands. “I believe this belon
gs to you.”

  His camera.

  Gabe took the delicate piece of equipment and tugged it to his lap, running his fingers over the edges, checking for nicks, cracks, warped metal, broken transition pieces . . .

  It was unscathed.

  Gratitude swelled up in him like an ocean wave. Thank you, Lord.

  Inhaling a shaky breath, he smiled. “It’s perfect. But what did you—? How—?”

  Jonah shrugged. “One of the soldiers went back to retrieve it. He thought you’d be mighty pleased to have it.”

  He swallowed. “Indeed I am.”

  “The feller that brought it back said your tripod was bent and the plate box were destroyed, but the camera looks good.”

  He ran his fingers once more over the cool metal. “I can’t believe it.”

  Jonah scratched the mop of hair under his kepi. “Folks keep saying only Providence could have spared it. Especially after all that happened that day.” Jonah frowned. “I’m still mad I missed the excitement.”

  Gabe scowled. “Excitement isn’t the word I would choose. But then again, I have no idea what happened, other than the scant details my nurse shared with me.”

  Jonah eased back down to the cot. “Ain’t good. Briggs was told to stay back, you know, so he’s fine but bully mad he wasn’t there for the others.”

  Dread spiraled through his chest. “What others?”

  Jonah looked afraid he’d said too much. “Weeks and George were taken prisoner. So were Walker, O’Sullivan, and Miller.”

  He cringed, pity for his friends consuming him. George, who’d defied incredible odds at Bull Run. Weeks, who was consumed with love for his girl back home. “What of Selby? Johnson?”

  Jonah looked away and mumbled, “Drowned.”

  A hollow ache gnawed. Too young. His throat constricted.

  There was one more he must know about, but he was hesitant to even say the name. “And, uh, what of Turner?”

  Jonah turned back. “He’s fine. Looked like something the cat dragged in when he returned to camp, but he made it without much damage. He might be the bravest man I know.”

  “Brave? I suppose.” If bravery equaled foolishness, “Thomas Turner” had that in spades.

  Jonah jumped up from the cot. His hands were fisted at his sides. “I thought better of you than that.”

  Surprised at the boy’s fervor, Gabe straightened. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I figured you’d show a bit more gratitude for the fellow who saved your hide.”

  The air thinned in his lungs. “What?”

  Jonah’s expression went blank just before awareness filtered across his freckled face. “You don’t know, do you?” The boy stared at him. “Thomas Turner was the one who dragged you down that mountain to safety. He’s the one that kept you from bleeding to death. He saved your life.”

  Chapter 16

  NOVEMBER 14, 1861

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  Among the fading reds, oranges, and golds of autumn’s trees, Cassie knelt and scraped her fingers against the forest floor, snagging a thick stick and dropping it into the heap of kindling in the middle of the litter. She straightened her aching back.

  Her load was only half-full and she was in no hurry to return to camp. The anticipation that permeated long weeks of waiting outside Washington for General McClellan to give marching orders had melted into disappointed apathy. Why didn’t they move? The passing days were growing into a blur.

  At least the nip in the November air was invigorating, as was the earthy scent of loam and cedar. In this stretch of woods, she was finally alone. Blissfully alone with no prying eyes watching to see if she was something other than Thomas Turner, man of war.

  The deception was wearing thin. Not that she wasn’t good at it. On the contrary, she spoke like a man, could walk like a man, and could easily keep up with the tasks assigned to the soldiers . . . something she accredited to God’s grace and being raised on a farm. Everything on the outside declared her to be solidly male.

  But she was a woman. A woman exceedingly weary of pretending to be something she wasn’t. A girl desperate for an embrace from her grandmother. A girl who longed to don her simple homespun dress and wander through the woods barefoot. She was tired of lying, of the perpetual strain, of the crude crush of men always around her.

  When Captain Johnston had pulled her aside three days ago, informing her she had been granted a fortnight of respite before winter set in, Cassie had stumbled and stuttered her way through the conversation.

  “Private Turner, you should take your fortnight of leave. I have no idea when I can grant you permission to visit your family in the future. War is uncertain.”

  Take her leave? And go . . . where?

  There was only one place she wanted to go and one person she wanted to see. Both were forbidden to her if she wanted to avoid her father.

  “But I have no family, sir.”

  Captain Johnston had frowned. “You don’t have to retain family to take a furlough, you know. And there are at least a dozen others I’m sending away to gain rest. I insist you take advantage of this opportunity. You’re a valuable asset to the Union, and we need you ready for whatever comes in the spring.”

  She picked up the ends of the litter and dragged it behind her across the forest floor, relishing its soft hiss as it slid over fallen leaves and cushioned beds of moss. She didn’t want to dwell on anything other than the snatched moments of solitude when she could be Cassie Kendrick.

  With a smile, she unslung the rifle from her shoulder and set it on the ground, then tugged off her kepi and tossed it on the litter, running her fingers through her silky hair. She really should cut it again, but something held her back. The other soldiers’ hair looked like hers, longer than normal, and no one thought them feminine. Still, she should not take the risk. As soon as she found blade or razor sharp enough, the thick tendrils would be shorn again.

  She sighed in contentment as she massaged her scalp, allowing the cool air to settle into the silky threads. She should enjoy it while it was still somewhat clean. The last time she’d attempted to bathe was three days ago and the water had been bitterly cold. Her teeth had chattered for an hour afterward. The chance of bathing again was remote until after winter’s thaw.

  Crunch, crunch . . .

  She froze. Footfalls through the woods. She was not alone.

  Heart hammering against her ribs, she lowered herself to the ground and reached for her gun. Her fingertips scraped the cold metal of her rifle. She rose slowly, gripping the weapon, and listened.

  Crunch, step, crunch, step . . .

  The gait was uneven. Breath thinning, she’d raised the rifle when a person appeared from behind a stand of pines.

  Sandy-blond hair, strong build, piercing green eyes . . .

  Her heart thudded to a stop as she set aside the rifle with limp hands. He stopped and stared at her with a small smile.

  Gabe.

  Her breathing felt sharp and much too rapid. He walked steadily toward her, a hitch evident in his stride. It had been weeks since Ball’s Bluff and she’d seen no sign of him since. Jonah assured her he’d delivered the camera, but all other traces of Gabe’s existence had been wiped from the camp, save for the Whatsit that sat lonely and unused on the outskirts of the cabins under construction.

  “Hi, Thomas.”

  She startled and then looked down as heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks. The kindness in his voice did little to settle her turbulent emotions.

  “I—I thought you’d left,” she stammered.

  He said nothing. Only studied her with an odd expression. Partly amused and partly . . . she didn’t know what.

  “I mean, your traveling darkroom is still at camp, but I figured Brady hadn’t had time to send someone for it, and—”

  Gabe interrupted with a chuckle. “I’ve never heard you speak so quickly, Thomas Turner.”

  A soft giggle escaped. “Your jabbering must have rubbed
off on me somehow.”

  He laughed, and something deep inside her, something she feared was dead and locked away, began to open and warm.

  His eyes darkened as he stepped closer, a shadow flickering across his face. “I haven’t left. I’m here, and it’s because of you.”

  He knew? Her chest tightened and she looked away. “Who told you?”

  “Jonah.”

  She frowned. “I didn’t want you to know.”

  He released a huff, rife with exasperation. “Why not?”

  She snapped back to meet his gaze, tasting the fear on her tongue. “Because I didn’t want you to think I did it as some sort of pitiful plea to change your mind about me. To make you feel guilty or some other attempt to manipulate.”

  He stepped closer and the air between them grew charged. “Why did you save me, then?”

  She looked into the sculpted planes of his face, into his intense eyes with their faint lines at the corners. Her tongue refused to work. She couldn’t say what suddenly struck her with astounding force, like a hammer against an anvil.

  She loved him.

  How could she have been so foolish? So undisciplined? She hadn’t wanted to, yet her heart had crumbled like ash just the same.

  Fisting her hands, she expelled a tight, shaking breath and looked away. “I couldn’t leave you there to suffer. You needed help.”

  He said nothing, only watched her. The silence between them grew uncomfortable.

  Clearing her throat, she nodded toward his injured leg. “How are you feeling?”

  He smiled gently. “I’m not dead, thanks to you.”

  Heat warmed her insides and tinged her skin.

  “I’m still a little sore but well otherwise.” His eyes crinkled. “Thankfully it doesn’t take strength like Briggs’s to capture images on glass.”

  Glimmers of their past friendship resurfaced. It might not be as it was before, but anything was better than the agonizing past few months of thick silence covering loud anger.